


Fate Has a Funny Way (Of Catching Up)

by irisbleufic



Series: Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Bars and Pubs, Chance Meetings, Fate, Fate & Destiny, First Meetings, Foreign Language, Gen, Kindness, Language Barrier, Multi, Origin Story, Other, POV Olga (Gotham), Pickpockets, Rain, Street Rats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 15:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14918417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Bundled tightly into her coat, Olga kept to the brightest-lit swath of sidewalk leading to the club's entrance. The red-lit neon fishbone had been replaced by a blindingly violet umbrella.Oswald's, said the awning, in copperplate typeface. She had to admit the name had dignity.However, the distraction cost her. Two young girls, hollering at the tops of their lungs, came racing from the mouth of the alley to her left.The first—dressed in black, curly blond bob flying—clipped Olga's elbow, throwing her off-balance.The second—raggedy green sweater and unlaced boots, red hair ablaze—ran fully into her, sniffling.





	Fate Has a Funny Way (Of Catching Up)

**Author's Note:**

> Follows _You Will Know Him (When You See Him)_ and _Too Close (For Comfort)_ , and falls right before _WYFIR_. Response to the prompt "a chance meeting between Olga and young Ivy." This did, however, find a way of becoming more than just the prompt.

_After a hard day, a drink is in order_ , the English saying went, and Olga had just learned it. 

From a real Englishman, no less, judging from the gentleman's accent. She had found him easier to understand than the majority of her short-lived American employers. _A butler who's seen the worst_ , he'd called himself after Olga had brokenly, in her second language, explained her profession and the cause of her ashamed tears.

Whoever he was, the stranger in a bespoke suit had paid her bus fare, given her a crisp twenty-dollar bill, and vanished into the rainy night. He hadn't even been carrying an umbrella.

On these grounds alone, Olga didn't feel guilty about her destination. If the mysterious Englishman had recommended a drink for what ailed her, then she was no down-and-out Russian to argue.

The bus let her off two blocks from her destination, which was less than ideal. Not a safe part of town, but several clubs were in it. She'd heard that Fish Mooney's place had fallen under new management after its proprietress's disappearance.

It was, put bluntly, worth finding out if the new staff poured heavy in order to keep Mooney's regulars.

Bundled tightly into her coat, Olga kept to the brightest-lit swath of sidewalk leading to the club's entrance. The red-lit neon fishbone had been replaced by a blindingly violet umbrella.

 _Oswald's_ , said the awning, in copperplate typeface. She had to admit the name had dignity.

However, the distraction cost her. Two young girls, hollering at the tops of their lungs, came racing from the mouth of the alley to her left. 

The first—dressed in black, curly blond bob flying—clipped Olga's elbow, throwing her off-balance.

The second—raggedy green sweater and unlaced boots, red hair ablaze—ran fully into her, sniffling.

“There there, _lastochka_ ,” Olga said, too startled to do anything other than pat the child's back as skinny arms wrapped around her. “What happen?”

“She took my coat,” the girl hiccuped, her dirty face pressed against Olga's buttons. “I'll be so cold!”

At a loss, Olga wondered how she could convey that the girl should go to a shelter. Before she could phrase it, the girl's arms loosened, both hands dipped into Olga's pockets, and the girl _ran_.

To make matters worse, it had begun to rain harder. After verifying that the girl had, indeed, made off with the twenty-dollar bill, Olga stalked over to take shelter under the club's awning.

A lanky young man in rain-splattered glasses and an ineffective coat already huddled there, staring through the purple-tinged glare of the club’s window. He startled at her approach.

“Oh dear,” he said, looking Olga up and down. “You're soaked.” He eyed the umbrella sign, his features lighting up with mirth, and glanced back at Olga. “I'd give you one if I had it to part with.”

“Umbrella is no use in wind,” said Olga, gruffly, waving him off. “Do you come to drink?” she asked, and then decided it might be worth taking a chance. “Do you need maid service?”

The young man gaped, backing away with one last nervous, regretful glance at the club's slick window.

“Um, no,” he said, raising both hands palms-out as he backed into the sidewalk. “That's a very big no.”

Before Olga could make out what kind of work badge he was wearing, he turned and scurried away.

“I am not _that_ kind,” she sniffed for her own benefit, feeling more lost and alone than ever.

After another minute of lingering in the rain, Olga swallowed her pride, showed her ID, and went in.

Past the bar and cabaret-style tables, the act onstage wasn't anything to write home about. The middle-aged woman with long, pale greying hair and a tattered fur stole could only half-carry a tune. The pianist, a young black woman with agile hands, was bewildered by the singer's tempo.

The decorations, on the other hand, put Mooney's aesthetic to shame, as did the young man at the bar. He was dressed in a three-piece suit nearly as well tailored as the Englishman at the bus stop, although his hairstyle could use some work. Difficult to appreciate, these modern haircuts.

Olga took a seat to his right, watching out of the corner of her eye as the young man abandoned his wine glass and limped to the end of the bar. He didn't stop until he'd passed the tables and reached the edge of the stage, offering his hand as the singer's number came to an end. He murmured something low and cajoling to the woman, who curtseyed once, took the young man's hand, and stepped down to join him.

“What would you like this evening, _madame_?” said the bartender, in heavily-accented English.

“Either you're part-French, or you're a fool to pretend,” Olga replied in Russian. “Where are you from, Ukraine?”

“Excellent ear,” replied the bartender, in Russian, flashing teeth. Flat-chested, but too soft in the shoulders, waist, and tone of voice for Olga to guess such matters as woman-or-man. “Vodka, neat?”

“How crude of you,” Olga said, removing her coat, “to assume that's what we all drink. Yes, a double.”

“Then I'll start a tab for _madame_ ,” said the bartender, switching back to English. “Coming up.”

As Olga got down to planning her exit such that she might avoid paying, the young man in the three-piece suit deposited the singer at one of the nearest tables. He hugged the singer and kissed her cheek, and Olga could discern the word _Mom_ in the jumble of what he'd murmured to her.

“Is good,” Olga commented, as he hopped back onto his stool with difficulty, “how you treat mother.”

The young man was pale beneath his severe, spiked fringe. This close, Olga could discern eye make-up.

“If you knew her,” said the young man, breaking into a sharp, eager-to-please smile, “you would, too.”

“I did not know mine long,” said Olga, thanking the bartender in Russian as they slid her two shots.

“Well, that's too bad,” said the young man, with a hint of sarcasm, but the set of his mouth softened. “Are you Russian?” he went on, hesitantly executing the basic phrase in Olga's native tongue. “My mother is Hungarian—and, _ah_ , German. She speaks four languages. She taught me a little.”

“A little Russian?” Olga asked in English, raising an eyebrow, and downed one of the shots. “Or all?”

“My Hungarian is almost fluent,” said the young man, proudly, “but my German has suffered. My Russian is, how would you say it, _priskorbny_?”

Olga didn't know the English, but she hoped her laughter indicated that his pronunciation had sufficed.

“Is like your fancy word for bad,” she said, raising her second shot to him, indicating he should take up his wine glass. “ _Ya ponimayu_. This is how my English goes.”

“That means _I understand_ , doesn't it?” said the young man, taking a satisfied swallow of wine.

“ _Da_ ,” Olga said, reaching inside her coat, feeling infinitely more hopeful about this prospect. She withdrew one of her simple business cards, which she hadn't had the chance to show the other young man. “If you need cleaner or Russian teacher, you must call.”

The young man accepted her card, making a noncommittal face, and tucked it behind his pocket square.

“Tell me, madam,” he said, suddenly all propriety, “how your service has been this evening? I take my patrons' experience here seriously.”

“You,” Olga said, pointing slowly at the umbrella on the wall to their left, “are Oswald? Like signs?”

“Yes,” said the young man, forcing another laugh, this one slightly nervous. “I'm Oswald all right.”

“Nice bartender,” Olga said, giving him a thumbs-up as she gulped her second shot. “Speaks Russian.”

“That they do,” said Oswald, distracted by the sound of raised voices outside. Once the racket subsided, he relaxed in his seat. “Once cannot be too careful in this part of town. Malingerers.”

 _Shady hangers-on_ , Olga thought, latching onto the Latin root. “Aha. _Da_. I see a few earlier.”

Oswald looked genuinely distressed for a moment. “I sincerely hope they didn't cause you harm.”

“Children,” Olga sniffed, slapping the bar. “They steal my money. And a strange man in glasses.”

“In glasses,” Oswald echoed, frowning, glancing back at the door. “I see. Well, Ms.— ” he hesitated for a moment, as if testing himself, patting his pocket “—Agapova, your drinks are on me.”


End file.
